Before I sleep and slip, Into a deep coma of dreams, I place my feelings into a bottle, And throw that bottle in the ocean blue, To cast out negativity, And to reach some form of life, In my dreams.
I send out thousands of words, But no words are strong enough, To express how I really feel.
There are some stunning humans, On this planet, Yet when I look in the mirror, I see a dark creature, Not worthy to walk this land. When the night comes, It covers my imperfections, When the sun rises, I slither back, Into the shadows.
I don’t feel like a human being, Maybe because, Deep down, I don’t speak human.
In mercado cages dull peach-faced love birds lack the sunshine they need The carcasses of dead animals are more vibrant than the live ones
A poster shows two female boxers One is Elena Menendez They are both heavily muscled and know that they will be hit as hard as they hit and that it will hurt them in the day and damage them in the night and in the weeks and months to come until the next fight which will be worse and the next worse yet until they can no longer raise their fists to defend themselves
I look in Elena’s eyes and see her thoughts: Why did I have to be a fighter? I love the sweet sounds of the violin Why couldn’t I have been a violinist?
A peach-faced love bird escapes its cage flies up and perches on a dead electric wire next to Elena’s photo posed with her fists up dangerous despite her fear
My wife is having a manic episode and has convinced herself that she is invulnerable that it is safe for her to drink the local water I leave the bathroom give the attendant ten pesos return to my wife standing under Elena’s poster just as she is finishing a big dirty glass full
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published by Pski’s Porch Publications in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face, He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
I
bought this book on a dark and rainy day in Birmingham last year, and
although I’ve dipped in and out of it during that time, now seems
like an ideal time to share my thoughts and review it.
Published by Quercus, Poems for a World Gone to Sh*t, is a lovely anthology containing classic and contemporary poems. Each remind the reader that whatever they may be going through, however difficult or dark life might seem, that they are not alone, and things will get better.
It’s
a collection which you can easily pick up and read depending on your
mood. Some of the poems you may already know. Some maybe completely
new to you. You can read one at a time, go through each chapter, or
if you felt like it, attack the entire book in one go.
I
like the mix of writers this the collection offers. Included are
verses from; Lemn Sissay, Margaret Atwood, D.H. Lawrence, Rudyard
Kipling and Hollie McNish.
Subjects
are varied. Some more relatable than others. In ‘Soup Kitchens’,
Hollie McNish expresses her anger and frustration at politicians who
decide policy about charitable aid. “…I’ve had enough.” She
says, “…I can’t even be arsed / to rhyme if these people are
leading the country.”
Some
of the poems are enthusiastic and many are inspirational. The
positivity in Maya Angelou’s ‘Still I Rise’ always lifts my
spirits. As does this extract from ‘Little Things’, a poem about acts
of kindness by Julia Carney. “Little deeds of kindness, / Little
words of love, / Help to make earth happy / Like the Heaven above.”
I
liked the poems about nature. ‘The Moment’ by Margaret Atwood is a
beautiful and thought-provoking piece about the environment
reclaiming itself from humanity.
I
found ‘Tall Nettles’ by Edward Thomas positive and uplifting. Most
people hate nettles, but Thomas admires their strength and beauty.
They survive and grow to cover everything else. “This corner of
the farmyard I like most: / As well as any bloom upon a flower / I
like the dust on nettles, never lost / Except to prove the sweetness
of a shower.”
I
enjoyed reading this collection. Some of the poems made me laugh,
some made me reflect, and others made me want to shout out in
agreement. There is something for everyone in this book.
On
the back of this book, the blurb says “Discover the amazing power
of poetry to make even the most f**ked up times feel better.” It’s
a good sales pitch for a good book. Poetry is powerful, and sometimes
the world does feel like it’s gone to sh*t. So what better way to
pick yourself, take a breath and read this anthology.
i still remember the look in her eyes the first time i heard that song blasting between the neon at the club
i had dreams of forever
and she just needed another free drink
neither of us left satisfied that night
for the rest of our lives
i stopped believing in love when the woman of my dreams decided she’d rather have a life without my dick in it
of course, we were going to remain friends for the rest of our lives
until three weeks later
she called with the news of a new boyfriend
i was out two thousand dollars and had a broken heart that never would be repaired
that was twenty years ago
time doesn’t heal shit
an old lover whistling in a graveyard
embrace the pain
an old lover whistling in a graveyard
that haunting laughter in the distance is god
she doesn’t necessarily expect and wish for your failure
but success is as likely as the souls in this graveyard ever seeing the sun
again
my therapist
the empty page eventually becomes my therapist
i only wish it would ask better questions
pressing my lips
the rain touches her lips like tears from a god we all stopped believing in years ago
i remember unbuttoning her shirt and pressing my lips to a nipple
she started to pull down my jeans and i was thankful i lived a quarter mile off of the road
and none of my neighbours could see this part of the property
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads
I
had been in some sort of daze, oblivious to everything but the end
goal of escape from reality on the work of a favoured author. Even
the news that an old classmate had been arrested for subversion
barely impinged on my consciousness. The Christmas melancholy with
all the memories of past missed opportunities overwhelmed me.
Depression had eclipsed my senses.
I
had no idea how I’d got in. The Derry Central library had been
closed to the public for this hour. Perhaps it was the haircut, I
told myself, recently trimmed as a concession to my lazy approach to
hair care. Then again, it could have been the generic blue-green coat
I had bought from an army surplus store in an effort to eke out my
paltry finances; or something about my bleak demeanour. Maybe it was
even an honest to goodness act of God.
Whatever
the unexpected sequence of events which allowed me access, there I
was: snuffling through an array of books which failed to pique my
interest; an oddity in itself, for I have always been an avid reader
and love books of all sorts.
In
saying ‘all sorts’, I’m excluding ‘pass-offs’ unimaginative
authors insist as being their own creation and, of course, the
assembly-line titillating trash identifying themselves as romance
novels: the sort worshipped by some women and most shadow-hugging
teenagers. I was considering re-reading an Asimov when I felt a tap
on the shoulder.
“He
wants you.”
The
police sergeant and I shared an awkward moment: he; surprised and
offended that an unauthorized civilian should be present; I, offended
and surprised that a cop should not only materialize in my local
library, but have the effrontery of laying a hand upon me. What I
actually verbalised was:
“Eh?”
The
cop’s eyes shrank to their normal suspicious little slits, as he
gave a non-committal shrug.
“Carson:
The
Condemned.”
Now
there was a tragic and macabre example of alliteration. The political
party elected by Carson’s peers, one of the more intransigent
schisms of republicanism, had been refused their mandate by the
occupying forces.
Nowadays
the ‘occupying’ bit was less of a physical presence than a
financial miasma and a briar patch of governmental procedures choking
independent decision-making like a drawstring on a medieval purse.
Despite
the futility of their situation, the more established republicans had
pursued diplomatic avenues to block the reintroduction of the death
penalty. However, paranoia and egocentric ruthlessness had brought
the death squads in from the cold, the same cold which gripped me as
I recognised their insignia as they blocked the exits.
Some
artiste had designed a new coat of arms for them: sable hound rampant
on a maroon and chevron gules background – or something along those
lines. I was concentrating more on being invisible than accurately
memorising their silly badge.
No
civilians remained within the building, save for one tremulous
desk-clerk. I had been so absorbed in my private thoughts that I had
either blithely walked through or entirely missed the silent
evacuation; my unheeding wandering from aisle to aisle frustrating
detection until now.
“Will
you see him?” The civility was uncharacteristic. I grimaced,
nodded, and followed the uniform up the central aisle to where Carson
sat, unfettered, in the middle of the library. The placement was
equidistant from any potential escape route. I knew him well. My legs
made the decision for me. Without transition I found myself sitting
opposite him, four eagle-eyed assassins looming over us.
“Jimmy,”
I offered by way of greeting.
“Thanks
for saying yes,” he acknowledged. He was giving nothing away. Big
Brother could do his own dirty work.
“Don’t even know how I got here,” I assured him hastily;
nightmare scenarios racing through my brain. Why me? Had he somehow
assumed it was I who informed? Don’t
be daft,
I scoffed at myself. What
do you know? You haven’t seen him since he joined.
“I’m
not …” I sought to explain.
“I
know,” he reassuringly waved away my denial. “I spotted you on
the way in and asked Beaky to let you stay. The Managing Director is
here as a witness that you come to no harm.”
“Heh,”
I grinned weakly. “I thought she was a clerk.” The relief I felt
was belied by the constriction I felt in my ribs.
“Oh
she wanted to leave a representative in her place. She said she had a
meeting to attend.” He grinned maliciously. “I insisted it be the
top boss. I remember how it was.”
“She’s
not too happy.”
Incongruously
we laughed. It petered out into an uncomfortable silence.
“How long?” I asked to break the eggshell moment.
“Forty
two minutes,” Beaky interposed. Identification wasn’t difficult.
There
was some movement at the entrance and a wild-eyed delivery boy thrust
a piping hot tray into the hands of one of the squad, before turning
on his heel and beetling off back to the relative safety of the
nearby takeaway.
“Hey,” the squad member began, “you forgot…”
“No charge,” came the incrementally distant whimper.
Another
took the special constable’s place as he bore the tray to the
table. He waved his Sniffer around the dish and plastic bottles
before and after carefully removing the foil.
“Bacon
and eggs, Spaghetti Bolognese and two bottles of mineral water. Enjoy
your last meal, Carson.” Some people have a knack of vocalising
sneers.
“I’ll
try, Pig-face.”
The
burly form of Beaky positioned itself between them as the squaddie
sought to vent his displeasure. Sullenly, he returned to his post.
Carson chowed down as if nothing had happened.
“The
other bottle’s for you.” He gestured towards the unopened
mineral.
“No thanks,” I croaked nervously, but determinedly, “but I’ll
take a swig of yours.” The dead man smiled gratefully.
“Symbolic.
I’m innocent, you know?”
“Does
that ever make a difference?”
“Asking the wrong guy. Tell my father the evidence was dismissed.
My solicitor had all the guff, but they got to him.”
“He
still have it?”
In
disgust, Carson spat a bit of gristle at one of the guards, not
Beaky. His eyes told me that finding the solicitor would be an
exercise in futility. Worm food.
“Still,” he feigned a yawn, leaning back in his chair to stretch
his gangly limbs, “you know me.”
“Back-up?”
“Kerr-ching,” he uttered in imitation of an old till drawer as
confirmation, and finished his meal. His eyes misted, yet an urgency
played around the irises. “Tell Caroline and the kids I’m not
going anywhere, you get me?” He lifted my shaking hand and pulled
it to his heart.
“No
probs,” I promised, dry-mouthed at the salute of old comrades.
I don’t remember what we talked about for the remaining half hour,
only that he smiled and cried, laughed and lied as I strove to fill
his remaining time. When he left he merely shook my hand and blew a
raspberry at the Managing Director on the way out. It had always been
an ambition of his, he had confided during those final minutes, to
make at least one pompous ass soil their underwear. From the
insidious odour oozing from behind the desk, I think he’d achieved
that goal.
Naturally
I wasn’t allowed to move from my place until plates, utensils and
bottles had been counted and removed; the tables and chairs checked
top and bottom; and I had been frisked and searched. This duty fell
to the one Carson had dubbed pig-face. Obviously disappointed,
despite having the sadistic pleasure of subjecting me to a
humiliatingly thorough search, the pig grunted, chucked the tin-foil
into the nearest bin and stormed out of the building.
Only
after the Land rovers and assorted armoured escorts had cleared the
block, their engines fading into the distance, the public begun to
timidly filter back into the library, and the terrifying stink of
well lubricated weaponry been drained by extractor fans, did I dare
to rise.
The
shadows, which had slumped across the aisle as Carson and I had
talked, sprang to attention as the sun shouldered its way through the
cloud cover. Cautiously glancing about me, I retrieved the tin-foil
from its resting place and read the electrolysed print: a combination
number to a safe.
I’d
pass his message on to his wife and family, but first I had documents
to relay to the International Court of Human Rights. He never called
his wife by her first name, opting instead for Morf
– an affectionate rendering of her maiden name, Murphy.
Anyone
else would have used ‘Murf’, but Carson had always loved Tony
Hart’s creation. I suppose he’d reckoned he would lump the two
together. The quirks of sentiment, eh?
The
barge which bore the Christian name Jimmy had so subtly stressed,
‘Caroline’,
was moored next to mine on the Shannon. I couldn’t imagine how he
had arranged it all, or how I was going to manage turning up on the
Carson doorstep after so long.
I
definitely didn’t know what I was going to say about his execution.
I didn’t know a lot of things, but I knew that when I finally
visited his family, I wanted to be able to look them in the eye and
promise that his name would be cleared.
Irish writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. His writing appears internationally in the Bookends Review, Red Fez, 13 o’clock Press, Curiosity Quills, Aurora Wolf Literary Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, SWAMP and many others.
Octopuses hand them tools as they work to right the Costa Concordia laying ruined on its starboard side
After work the divers drink in bars and recount their undersea exploits to avid women
while the octopuses slither back into their holes where some of them fondle large wrenches or pieces of steel cable
There is something so strangely tactile about these objects The octopuses embrace them with their entire bodies and have multiple orgasms far more orgasms than the divers who have gone to bed early to be ready for another day at work under the surface
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face, He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
you have to wonder at the flavour, and savour the smell, accept taste the bitterness of it; gooseberries and fresh appleflesh. you have to get sunlight pouring over windowsills and spilling into ditches onto drunks going home. that’s wine, see? this: going home. a skip in the road and light which shines in a bottle. a kiss from your friend returned again after too long gone off at sea.
D.S. Maolalai is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin and has been nominated for Best of the Web, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).
In our chapel at Golden Pines, Amber light through stained glass, Across the burgundy cushions, Greying heads, hip and knee replacements, A new organ fills the room: Bach, Widor’s toccata, Three manuals, hundreds of stops. Digital, no pipes, which means to some It is not real. Oh, but is it— The swells, crescendos, The noble trumpet of the Prince of Denmark’s March. It replaces the kind of organ You used to hear in cafeterias, Playing for the Civitans. Our friend explains, improvises for us; Keys change. How many would be so bold As to put on display the skills Of a life’s work, now Compromised by time. It is marvellous, we think, in every way. At last we have at Golden Pines An instrument fit for a sanctuary, For a service of last rites.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
Must be my lucky day. Look what I found on the sidewalk in a small Midwestern town at the turn of the 21st century. It’s almost midnight. The one street light is swinging like a pendulum. I saw it gleaming through the cracks. I just had to kneel down and pick it up.
Well so what. My find is not helping my car any. It’s as dead as a pair of twos in a poker game. And a mile back there on the road some place. And I can’t afford to pay for a roof over my head. But that’s my worry, not yours.
Have you guessed it yet? Red roses in a white wine bottle? Iron Maiden CD in a medicine cabinet? Scheherazade on a shingle? Shakespeare, vestal virgins or leopards? Take my advice and forget about it.
Is it a gleam, a glitter, in an otherwise dead block of cement? Does it remind me of someone? Do I break into a little song? And dance with my own shadow?
And now it’s starting to rain. It dribbles down my chin. The wind is brisk and repulsive. The people are all indoors, in bed, with the lights out.
So I’m under an awning, with my coat wrapped around me, head on a stoop. body curled up like a snail’s.
Have you guessed it yet? It’s nothing really. But you knew that all along.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
A roller of fat cigars, the hefty guy whose arms are inked with devils and angels, short-skirted women showing enough leg to start the dogs barking, and an old lady selling flowers – I have ignored them all just to be with you.
A shop window advertising 47 ice-cream flavors, a pig with two heads or maybe two pigs with a head apiece, blind kids playing baseball, a construction site, a barbershop quartet – I was in such a hurry, I noticed none of these.
Then you have to ask me how my never-wavering concentration on the matter in hand enabled me to include, for poetic purposes, all these things I bypassed, took no notice of.
That’s a good question. Luckily, on my journey, I avoided all good questions. That’s why I’m here.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
